Having read every other "Marlow" novel, I figured that this would follow the pattern established by the previous stories, each one being better than the last. Unfortunately, this one dropped the ball. I wish I could say why - all the usual ingredients are there from seductive women brandishing sex to dangerous mobsters and other assorted degenerates brandishing guns, ice picks and dodgy cigarettes. The accustomed hazards of a private eye!
But... this time it never seems to catch fire. The traditional Marlow observations and asides. The chess like dialogue. The characters oozing deceit and human frailty. It's still there, but it's kinda got all formulaic. A sort of writing by numbers. Chanlder was by this time famous, well off and held in some esteem, so perhaps he had lost his early enthusiasm and drive. I don't know, but it certainly seems that way.
The plot itself starts out tired and, like some of the hapless people in the book, eventually turns up DOA. Again, all the ingredients are there but the recipe is off. Hollywood, starlets, The Mob, bent cops - perhaps it's just too easy a target. It's complex, as one would expect from Chandler, but about two thirds the way through, the author seems to stop bothering to explain (even in a general manner) how we got where we are and loose interest in the narrative. And so did I.
Never mind, I have ordered The Long Goodbye and that seems to get glowing reviews, so perhaps this was just a bit of an aberration. Please don't be put off trying the other Marlow stories, or even this one. At his worst, Chandler is still head and shoulders above 99% of other detective writers.